Dinozzo or: How I learned to use Gibbs' rules
by Mythical Element
Summary: Special Agent Dinozzo is nowhere to be found. His team and 'friends' from other agencies are bustling to find him and to bring NCIS's busted op. to a close. His father is doing the same, but he's willing to do whatever it takes. His only son is out there.


Disclaimer – Any copyrights in relation to the characters and storylines from NCIS respectively belong to CBS and any other affiliates.

This short story is influenced by Dr. Strangelove or: How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb (mainly for the title) and a story I read in my literature class last semester, can't remember the title or author but her writing style was unorthodox and it was amazing. Her story spoke from the point of view of the main character and it was different from almost all other short stories I've read. I'd recommend it if only I could remember the title.

Thanks to, _usa123_, for the general idea for this story. Once I read your reply message, a synopsis was written and it was just more writing from there.

The only note I have left is that I hope to finish this story before I recieve my science degree.

* * *

><p>Title - Dinozzo or: How I learned to use Gibbs' rules and love the job<p>

...

Prologue - Unidentified location, Mexico, End of July, 1309 hours

It is hot. It is crazy how hot it is. It is like reaching into an oven and your hand is so close to the broiler that it recoils back instinctively. I just wish I could step back in shade somewhere, in a room with central AC, in a chair with a fan blowing at my face. Anywhere but out here. It's nothing but imagination at this point. If only it wasn't so hot today though. The work so far, digging up dirt and wheeling it away in carts, isn't _too_ bad. Definitely not worst than what I had thought of before we all came here, actually it was more like shipped in the back of 18-wheelers then released onto this location, but come on…

The heat is killing me. A cloud needs to just float over the sun and stay there. Not a single damn one in the sky though. I drag my forearm across my forehead and continue the task of driving the shovel into ground, scraping forwards to get a good pile of dirt onto it and pouring it into the cart behind me, another person rolling it away. I have no clue what this is supposed to accomplish (yet) but I do know some things.

It's boring. Tiring. Hell, annoying. Looking around, I know I'm not the only one thinking the same but they continue their work with huffs and grunts. Sweat is soaking their clothes and there are smudges over the parts of their bodies not covered, especially their arms and faces. Most likely from itchy mosquito bites and rubbing the sweat out of their eyes. No complaints can be heard coming from their chapped mouths though.

Earlier, there was a guy who tried to humor the security watching us. They didn't think it was and the poor guy was beat down. It was funny though. At least to me. The two guards, a Mario and Luigi pair, were tapping metal batons against their palms, in rhythm with the steps they took around us. Their eyes squinted at us. Making sure every person was doing their job. Once they had walked pass by the guy, he spoke aloud, so that all could hear, that this sort of labor was against the constitution and that it should be a crime to work outside in this heat. It was involuntary manslaughter. The sweaty guy exaggerated his point by shoving his shovel in the ground. Then he leaned against with one hand and used the other to rapidly pull his collar back and forth from his neck. The guy was goading them. But he didn't keep his mouth shut. Oh no, he went on. The idiot.

Their eyes honed on him and they stopped. They turned in unison. The bigger of the two pointed his baton at him, telling him that his constitution does not matter here and to get back to work, _gringo_. All said in heavily accented English. Spanish. The idiot gave a grin at them and he said to tubby that he wasn't looking so hot, that he should take a breather before he got heat stroke. Fatty was looking kind of red in the face. Can't blame the guy for giving him a warning. Porky's face got even redder and he strode up to the guy, giving him a strike right in the diaphragm, bringing him to his knees. His lanky partner stood where he was. He wasn't in any hurry to stop him but he was watching carefully. As long as he didn't kill the guy I guess. The other workers stopped what they were doing in mid-motion to watch too. His partner finally grabbed Porky's arm and stopped him before he could deal another blow to the guy's back as he was bent over, breathing harshly. Skinny had rattled off in Spanish.

"Stop! You can't hurt him. Santiago will kill you. He still has use here. Leave him and let it go. Come on. Bye American." From what I could understand as the lanky one dragged his partner away, towards one of the cabins. They sat on the steps. They were glaring at us from the shade. Porky shouted at the rest of us to get back to work unless one of them wanted to take the gringo's place. That got them back to work without hesitation. The American sat up with a winch and jumped back up on his feet, staggering a bit. He relayed to everyone that he was okay and there was no need for help but thanks anyway. He ripped his shovel out the ground. They were too busy shoveling dirt and pushing carts to care.

That guy was special, I'll tell you that much. Shoveling just one more pile of dirt into the cart besides me, I take break. I stick the shovel in the ground and lean against it with my hands crossed over each other on top it. I lay my forehead on my hands and close my eyes. It's hot and sticky, like I've been running miles. My breathing finally has a chance to slow down since we started this morning. The sun is more towards the west but it's still cooking out here. I hear some shouts coming from the cabin where the guards are sitting and there's the thud-clank of shovels being dropped to the ground. Now the workers start chattering. Some start moving towards the mess hall. It's finally close to chow time. The food is gross, I can't even describe what half of it is, but the AC is all I really care about. Hallelujah.

But I start to remember some things. From just over two days ago. Before being dumped here. The events that led up to me being in this situation. It went down better than I expected. For the most part. I arrived at the compound. I initiated contact with the traffickers. Six of them and one head honcho. They didn't suspect me. I knew they didn't. We made the deal. All the evidence was there and relayed to NCIS. But then something happened. I should've known something was going to happen. Gunfire was heard. Didn't know from where but everybody started to panic. Panic was not good in these types of situations. The captives scrambled around, despite being handcuffed with chains linking them to each other like prisoners. I gave them points for trying though. They knocked the traffickers around but that was a mistake. Even though they outnumbered them, the holders had guns. Automatic weapons. I pulled my gun but I was side swiped. Right on the head. I fell and it was nothing but images fading in and out after that. I saw everything from different angles. People were being dragged on the floor by others. Dead. The cries of the dying were put out of their misery. Worthless to them. The rest were shoved into a single file line at gun point, back into the trucks. I felt sick.

Then someone stood above me. Staring down at me. I heard him say, "Sorry it had to end this way, but the deal's off muchacho." Another hit to the head with the handle of a gun. Smug Bastard. I was out after that. The operation was over. It was a mess. A literal bloody mess. But I haven't been had…yet.

I hear a southern accented voice somewhere in front of me that catches my attention. A country man. So much for thinking of a plan of escape at the moment.

" 'ey Americano." What an odd mix of dialects.

I glance up towards my right. My eyes adjust to the overbearing sunlight again. The voice I recognize from the truck ride down here. He was the only one willing to talk to me in there. It was more of he talked and I listened because the concussion I had was brutal. But I kept a conversation going on with him. Well I tried. Every few hours he checked on me so that was appreciated. I straighten up as I keep my left hand on the shovel. I rub my neck with my other hand.

"The Texan, right?" I can't help but crack a smile at the man. I remember that much at least. He's from Texas and got caught up along the border.

He laughs at that, shaking his head at me as he walks away a bit. He bends backwards, with both hands holding his back, until a _pop _of bones is heard. I quickly study his upside down face. The man is of typical American Hispanic descent– dark drown hair down to his ears with strands of gray from age, dark eyes that gave nothing away besides amusement, a long nose that hooks a bit at the end, a moustache that is peppered like his hair, and tanned skin from working a whole lot longer than I have in the summer sun. He's taller then me by a couple inches but his built is slightly smaller. Kind of reminds me of somebody. But I set that feeling aside. I hold out my hand. Time for some introductions.

"The name's Emanuele." I say using my given alias. Got to keep up appearances for my cover's sake. Not like he'll know the difference. The Texan rights himself and turns to face me. He reaches out and clasps my hand. Strong grip for an old guy.

"Miguel." He drops his hand then points to his abdomen area.

"I know your gut and back is gonna be bruised for a while but let's get something to eat before the herd arrives." He pats his stomach and I watch him head over to the mess hall as I rub my midsection. I grimace at the sudden pain. Thanks for the reminder, Miguel. But it was worth it. Santiago carries more weight than I had thought in this trafficking ring and evidently I'm still _useful_ to these dirt bags. But why have me work out here when they could coerce _Emanuele_ for information? Money. Contacts. Practically anything to move along business. I wouldn't tell them a damn thing though.

I follow Miguel along the long one story building to the mess hall entrance. With only two windows, one large rectangle viewing window–that can't be opened–reveals the mess hall and its hungry occupants. The workers are chatting around square tables while enjoying that crap the cooks call "food". No way is that stuff edible. I won't believe it. The other window, smaller and square, was pushed open half way to allow the smoke from the kitchen to air out. Two cooks stir stew over the stoves while two others, side by side with their backs to the window, prepare chopped up meat inside corn tortillas on the countertop and place them on plates. Servers' hands take the finish plates from view to serve the workers in line. It's actually amazing how they work in that small kitchen space. It would drive me nuts. Somebody would get an elbow in the face if I was in there.

I crack the door and stop, holding it in place with my left hand. I tap it once. Then bang on it twice. I have no way of any communication with my team and I know they're worried. Hell, I'd be worried too. They're probably wondering what the hell happened out there during the operation – did he survive? If they don't already know that I got caught in the crossfire and captured. Ziva would know. Her investigative sight almost unmatched to many. Abby would agree. Based on scientific fact from the evidence. Tim would do his geek thing. His technical genius proving the fact their team mate was alive. And the boss would…

Gibbs would be doing anything to bring back one of his own. And I feel sorry for anyone standing in his way. So I'm not too worried. As long as they don't figure out anytime soon that I'm a U.S. federal agent then it's all good.

I cruise into the mess hall and glance around at the people. They're still sweating from the heat and all of them have dirty faces but they're settled down. I see a table of young guys, younger than me, hold their drinks in the air. Probably hoping for that moment when they can get out of place. I'm with them on that. It's all about time and chance. Right now, I know **I** have a small chance. These people, not so much.

Miguel waves me over to a table by the big window. I join him, sitting in a wooden chair opposite. The sunlight feels nice from in here. He crosses his arms over his chest and I watch him eyeing me and he asks,

"So you come up with a plan yet?" What plan? I have no idea what he's talking about.

"A plan for what?" I act dumb and surprised.

"Kid, I know that look in your eyes. You're scheming for a way out, just like these other folks in here and I'll tell ya its going to be tough being a one man team." He leans forward, sitting his elbows on the table. There's a gleam in his eyes. An unspoken partnership on the table. I turn my head to look outside, considering Miguel's offer. The sun is finally beginning to set behind the district in the distance. I can just barely see the moon coming up from the right of the sun. They look like they're only a few feet from each other out there. A tag team. I copy his movement so we're eye to eye but I bend my head forward. Just a little bit closer.

"So have ya come up wit' any ideas then, partner?" I ask with an exaggerated southern accent. I don't take kindly to the "kid" remark. And it was oddly familiar with the way he said it too. Now that I think about it only one other person has called me that.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves now kid." Miguel chuckles and leans back into the seat. His arms are crossed loosely in front of his chest again. I notice then his teeth, yellowed slightly around a dark gum line. A smoker. That laugh. It's all awfully familiar again.

"I'm wondering, are ya related to anyone with the name _Franks_?" I squint my eyes at him. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Nah. Never is.

His eyebrows go up. He's genuinely surprised but I notice that look in his eyes. I see it in witnesses' faces all the time. Recognition.

"Franks? You mean Mike Franks?"

I give him a nod. He straightens up at that while stretching his neck back. He's smiling.

"I haven't seen him since '08. Last we talked was when his retired buddy from D.C. decided retirement wasn't for him and got back in the game. I believe he was under Mike's wing back in the day. Those were simpler times." After that last sentence, he reaches over for his glass and takes a sip of water. The excitement gone. I gaze down at the table top. So he's a friend of Franks. Evidently he knows Gibbs. I wonder if he's a retired agent then. Or a retired marine. Or both.

"You're no trafficking lord are ya kid? Well you screwed the pooch on whatever operation you're on that's for sure." He asks me after placing his glass down. Scrutinizing me. I lift my head up too quickly. I was caught. Only an idiot couldn't tell.

"Relax kid, I heard about you years ago when I met Gibbs in '07 back at Mike's place. I shook that's man hand and offered him a beer. To retirement I said."

His glass is raised at that. He leans back in seat, recalling the rest of that day.

"I asked what brought him to retire down to Mexico, couldn't be for the lousy company."

He guffaws. "Mike then told me I should take a hike and find me some _lousy_ company that'd give me free board. Man could never take a joke. Anyway, All Gibbs had to say was that he was tired and this place seemed like a good place to relax. Hah, yeah right I said."

I lean further on my arms, interested in the tale. Might as well drop my pretences now. Miguel continues on.

"Gibbs could lie like the best of them but I understood. One day it just all becomes too much and you realize it's time to move on. Better than stayin' in the same place with reminders hanging over your head."

He takes another sip of water. Another moot point.

"Then I asked him about his team he left suddenly behind. Then he said that he wasn't worried about them. Not at all. They could care of themselves and he left his second in charge. And I quote, "If anyone could get the job done and then some, it'll be him and _his_ team. They'll continue to make me proud. And if they ever need anything, they know where to find me."

I watch Miguel snort then down the rest of his water. I can feel my face slightly burning again and the sun can't take the blame this time. I stare at a crack in the table, smiling down at it. Really I want to dance and whoop around and say "I knew it!" and tell the rest of the team but no. I'm stuck here with Gibbs and Franks' amigo. While they're out there. Searching for a missing agent, about a hundred illegally held civilians and the criminals responsible.

Then I realize Miguel never did answer my question.

"So are you related to Franks or something because I tell ya the resemblance is really-" I'm cut off by a curt "Yep." by Miguel. He's turning his empty glass around and around the table top and his left hand is tapping a random tune.

"We're brothers, actually half-brothers but brothers all the same." He stops his movement then starts rotating the glass in the opposite direction. The random tapping becomes a tune that I soon recognize. The hymn of the Marine Corps.

Well I figure that answers the rest of my questions.


End file.
